


Sonder

by vaughnicus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas in May, F/M, Fluff, Language, M/M, Modern AU, airport happenings, grantaire and enjolras are stupidly in love, minimalistic writing, no really, outside pov, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaughnicus/pseuds/vaughnicus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is a powerful thing. It is a beacon, and those who have the dubious joy of commandeering such a light play a vital role not only to the soul who's given it to them, but to all those disillusioned, dimming illuminators they come into contact with. </p>
<p>(Or, Grantaire is the idealist for once.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonder

**Author's Note:**

> I recognize that the definition of the titular word doesn't exactly fit the theme, as each of those involved become more than just a random passerby. But it sets the tone and fits enough, so I claim artistic flexibility. 
> 
> Also this is set near Christmas... I'm not sure why that happened but it did, so enjoy the thoughts of pretty snow while you enjoy the physical warmth. (Unless you live somewhere that's still cold. In that case, light a fire and pretend it's December.)

## sonder

_n_. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.   
  


 

* * *

 

 

My fucking plane’s been delayed.

            It’s Christmas Eve, and now I’m going to have to wait another fucking two hours for my plane to a town three hours away and by the time I get there it will be past midnight and Evan will be tired from waiting and dinner will be over and the roads will be icy and this is not how this night was supposed to go, damn it.

            I growl, tossing my pack onto the nearest bench and throwing myself down next to it. I pull out my phone and text everyone to let them know I’m going to fuck everything up because it’s always my fault, isn’t it, even when I have nothing to do with the system and winter storms and goddamn departure times and

            Okay. Deep breath.

            Stressing out won’t make this better. I’ve just got to stay cool and figure out what to do for the next two hours. There’s a little café set into the wall of the airport and I decide that’s as good a place as any to start.

            I order some sort of fancy hot espresso drink with a lot of flavoring and sugar. Hey, if I have to wait I might as well treat myself. There are a few tables set out to eat at and I snag one near the corner and pull out the paperback I’d shoved in my purse earlier. I think it’s a mystery – one of those Agatha Christie wannabees.

            I open it up and manage to read the first couple of paragraphs but don’t get much farther than that – I just can’t focus. My thoughts keep returning to Evan and his inevitable reaction when I see him. We’ve been going through a… rocky patch lately and odd things tend to upset him, so to say I’m unsettled at the prospect of showing up so late, despite the situation being entirely out of my hands, is a bit of an understatement.

            I inhale deeply, bringing a hand to the bridge of my nose and trying to settle the pressure building there.

            A huff sounds from the table across from me and I look up to see a young man sitting there, staring at me sympathetically. He’s pale and unshaven, wearing a red knit cap atop his shock of black curls and gripping a pen in one hand.

            “Rough day?” He asks.

            “Rough month,” is my tired response.

            He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then he stands and walks over, stopping at my table and extending a hand.

            I shake it and he quirks a half smile as he pulls out a chair and sinks into it.

            “It’s none of my business, but sometimes talking to an objective party can really help.”

            I sigh, fiddling absently with my cup. “Oh, it’s nothing new. Marital troubles. Young lovers who are growing apart, that sort of thing.”

            At my half-confession, his eyes cloud with pain and I wonder if he’s remembering some past (or current) heartbreak.

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be. It’s not your fault – these things happen. And… I think we’re still trying to work it out.”

            “You think?” He queries, a spark of mirth in his eyes. (And wow, they really are very blue, aren’t they?)

            “Well. No one’s mentioned divorce yet, so we’re at least pretending there’s hope.”

            “Hey,” he says, covering one of my hands with his own. “There is always hope.”

            I would normally brush him off, but it’s late and I’m overwhelmed and his eyes are solemn and knowing and _so damn blue_ and I feel my own eyes heat traitorously.

            “I suppose there is.”

            He pulls away with a gentle smile and I take a moment to collect myself before asking, “so what’s got you here so late? You aren’t headed to Boston, are you?”

            He chuckles. “No. Actually, I’m not headed anywhere.” The faintest blush alights on his cheeks. “I’m waiting for someone.”

            “Oh! A relative?”

            “No,” he says, the blush growing.

            “Oh.” And now I’m the one with a drop of mirth. “Special someone, then?”

            “Yeah.”

            And wow, there go five years off his face, and he’s young to begin with.

            “Tell me about her.”

            “Him,” he corrects, unabashed.

            “My bad. Tell me about _him._ ”

            “Well,” he starts, then stops, and then laughs and shakes his head. “Sorry. He’s just…”

            “Indescribable?” I offer, and he nods.

            “That’s it.” His gaze is foggy, mind clearly on the man he has no words for. Then it snaps back to me, and he cocks his head. “I – I could show you.”

            I give him a ‘go ahead’ gesture, expecting him to pull out a photo from his wallet, or pocket maybe. But instead he drags my napkin towards him and put his pen to it, rapidly sketching an outline. I watch, enraptured, as his agile hand coaxes mere ink into something more, even for just an exemplary doodle.

            He finishes and turns it toward me. I give him an impressed look.

            “Wow. Well if this is at all accurate, I can certainly see what drew you to him.”

            Even in the small drawing there is a feeling of passion – it radiates from the stern brow and strong jaw, existing even in the soft curls falling over an unlined forehead.

            He nods, knowingly. “It is. And that’s just a sketch. In reality, he’s unbelievable. Statuesque.” He laughs quietly. “When I first saw him I thought Apollo had fallen out of time and landed in front of me. It was the only explanation.”

            “So it was love at first sight?”

            “For me? Absolutely.”

            “And for him?” I prompt, genuinely intrigued.

            “He claims to have been ‘affected by a sort of breathlessness,’ but he’d just had the wind knocked out of him so I don’t put too much stock in that.”

            At my bewildered look, he laughs.

            “I had a show at a gallery right next to the place he was leading a protest. The police got involved and one of his friends shoved him into the gallery to protect him.” He settles back in his chair, far away. “I was in the middle of discussing the price of one of my works when he fell in. I was halfway across the room but none of the stuffy critic pricks would go near him so I walked over to make sure he was okay. I mean, I didn’t know who he was; I was just going to help him up and send him on his way, but… I offered him my hand and he looked up and I – well. I can’t describe what happened without using a horrible cliché, but it was the whole shebang. You know – time stopping and my lungs freezing up and all that.

            “He kinda froze a little bit, too, but that might have been because I was staring at him. Pretty intensely. We, uh, probably looked pretty odd to all the guests there, but I’ve happily discovered that no one questions the artist at his own exhibition.

            “Anyway, we finally rediscovered movement and I got him on his feet. He explained the situation so I let him stay. I mean of course I let him stay, I wanted him to stay. Forever, preferably. Of course I didn’t say that… yet. But I did ask if I could paint him.”

            I shake my head, heart warm from the tale of unorthodox romance. “And he accepted? Just like that?”

            “Well I had to do a bit of bargaining. See, my dear Apollo is quite the revolutionary, and he has this group of activists who meet up every week to plan protests and stuff. He wanted me to go to one.”

            “And did you?”

            He scoffs. “Of course. Anything to see more of him. I know he regretted asking me after the first time I went, though. All I did was sit there, drink, and shoot down everything he was trying to sell.”

            “But you kept coming.”

            “Every week. And he let me. And he kept letting me paint him. God knows why.”

            I rest my chin in my hand, feeling the ache of remembrance settle into my chest. “It started as curiosity, perhaps. He was drawn to you and didn’t know why so he let you stay, and kept coming to see you, if only to figure out _why_. And then… he finally figured it out.”

            He sits back, peering at me. “You didn’t tell me you were a telepath.”

            “I’m not,” I laugh. “Just experienced.”

            “Well, whatever the reason, he didn’t end up killing me. Quite the opposite, actually.”

            “Was it?” I ask, fingering the drawn-on napkin between us. “The opposite?”

            He nods once, not asking what I mean, eyes on the table. “He saved my life. More than once.”

            I feel my chest tighten at his words. “You really love him.”

            “Oh, yes,” he says, unashamed of his feelings; uncaring of his sensitivity. “More than I can say.”

            We sit in companionable, reflective silence for a moment, and then he cocks his head at me.

            “So I’ve been talking about myself way too much. What about you? How did you meet yours?”

            “Oh, Evan?” I smile into the air, the past a golden glow in my mind’s eye. “At a swing dance. I went all the time; he’d been dragged along by his sister. They were late and had missed the lesson at the beginning, so the first time I saw him he was – struggling, to say the least. I respected his attempts, though, and that he was on the floor and not sitting aside. So I went up to help him, intent of showing him some basic steps and retreating back to my group of friends.”

            “Let me guess,” he cuts in. “You never got back to them.”

            “No,” I laugh; almost giggle, really, shot back to girlishness through memory. “He was entirely uncoordinated but so funny. And gorgeous. He had my number and a date by the end of the night, and the rest went about how you’d expect. Ours isn’t the most exciting tale of romance,” I admit.

            “But it’s yours,” he insists. “And because of that, it’s beautiful.” He shifts, pursing his lips. “Now, I don’t know what’s happened between you two and it isn’t my business to. But just watching you talk about him, I can _see_ the fondness still nestled inside – the love you still hold. You want to make this work, and if he’s at all the man you married, so does he. Everyone hits rough patches – you’ve just got to get through them and come out stronger, or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

            I can’t speak for a moment and in the stillness he seems to realize that his interference might not be welcome. He sits back, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth.

            It makes him look endearingly young and abashed, and idly I wonder if the man he speaks so passionately about loves the gesture; if he ever constructs a sentence in such a way so as to bring that certain reaction about.

            “Look, I – I know I may have been out of line just now, but… I won’t take any of it back.”

            I lick my lips. “No… you’re right.” I feel my throat start to tighten and curse my increasingly fragile sensibilities. “I do want us to work. I still love him. And he loves me, of course he does…” I trail off and my companion gives me a sympathetic (but decidedly not pitying) look/

            “I sense a ‘but’.”

            “But… we just haven’t been agreeing lately. We’re both so short tempered… I don’t even know what started it. Things have just gotten so tense they seem irreconcilable.”

            “You know what I think?” he asks, not bothering to wait for my answer before continuing. “You both sound like you’re being melodramatic bitches.”

            It’s a risky comment and he knows it.

            I sit stunned for only a moment before breaking into laughter. His wide, satisfied grin shows only the barest hints of relief at the edges.

            “And I should know,” he says, following the thread that’s leading him through a transition from solemn advisor to the seemingly more natural state of joker. “I’m in a relationship with the most melodramatic bitch of all.”

            “Is that so?”

            The new voice causes both of us to jump. I look up to see a man standing behind my fellow conversationalist who looks like he’s come straight out of a Forever 21 ad, despite his apparent weariness.

            It is quite clear that this is my friends’ significant other, and it is made even clearer when he jumps from his chair uttering a pleasantly shocked, “Apollo!”

            Recalling the story I’ve been told of their meeting, I assume Apollo is not actually the saintly figure’s name – though it would certainly be fitting.

            “R,” the blonde returns, dropping his suitcase so he can return the violent hug being gifted to him.

            They pull apart after a few moments to look at each other, hands and forearms still twined together. The tenderness that descends to dance between their eyes has me turning my head away.

            “I missed you,” says my companion softly (and how have I not gotten his name? R, Apollo had said. Robert? No, doesn’t fit at all. Rick? Rene?)

            “And I you.”

            When I choose to look back at them they are breaking a gentle kiss, and it is then that R’s Apollo notices me. A small furrow appears between his brows, along with a very light blush across well-defined cheekbones. R notices the expression and turns halfway back towards me.

            “Sorry, sorry.” I’m not sure which of us he’s apologizing to. “This is the woman who’s kept me sane as I’ve waited for you. Enjolras, meet…” He stops, blinking. “Jesus. I never got your name.”

            I laugh. “We didn’t really go in order, did we?” I extend my hand. “Annalise.”

            “Oh, perfect,” he laughs, shaking my hand with much more enthusiasm than the first time. “Grantaire.”

            “That’s beautiful.”

            “Hey now. No flirting. We’re both very taken, remember? Or is that not what we’ve spent the last hour discussing?”

            Enjolras is very confused by this point. I take pity on him, holding out my hand with a half-amused, half-apologetic look.

            “Enjolras. It is lovely to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you in the past sixty minutes.”

            He still looks a little bemused, but his grip is firm as he takes my hand, tipping his head in acknowledgement.

            “Nothing too terrible, I hope.”

            The very suggestion is absurd. “Oh, I think you know that couldn’t be the case.”

            His warm expression says he does. Though he can’t help a small smirk. “So, ‘the most melodramatic bitch of them all’ is a compliment now?”

            Grantaire flushes darkly and I bring my hand to my mouth. “That was my fault! He was trying to cheer me up.”

            “Well, he would.” He shoots Grantaire a sly glance. “Expect retaliation. Soon.”

            If Grantaire looks all too pleased at the insinuations of that, I don’t comment on it.

            Soon enough, though, any glimmers of lewdness dissipate, leaving only fondness, and I glance between them for a moment, marveling at the easy lightness they bring to each other. I’d thought Grantaire was happy when he was talking to me, but it’s nothing compared to the quiet serenity emanating from him now. And Enjolras, in spite of the obvious exhaustion he’s feeling, is smiling, keeping some part of himself in contact with Grantaire at all times without even seeming to realize it.

            With an affected mental sigh, I start to gather my things and rise. Grantaire notices and his eyes go wide.

            “Don’t leave! Enjolras has only just met you! At – at least let us buy you a coffee.”

            I smile somewhat regretfully, lifting my empty cup. “I think this was enough indulgence for one night. I appreciate the offer, though.”

            He looks like he’s about to protest, so I hold up a finger. “Hey, you two might be done with your waiting and travelling, but I’ve still got a plane to catch. And I haven’t even gotten through security yet.”

            At that, he deflates. “Oh. Right.”

            I set my baggage down and round the table to hug him. He is quick to return my sudden embrace, wrapping both arms around my shoulders.

            “You’ll make this better,” he says, concrete and irrefutable.

            I can only whisper “thank you” into his shoulder, eyes shut tightly.

            Some significant others would be jealous at this strange turn of events, or perhaps feel put off at the least. But Enjolras only watched the proceedings with a mild expression that’s approaching tender around the edges. I wonder if this isn’t the first time Grantaire has been left alone in public and struck up a long, meaningful conversation with a stranger.

            After a moment I step away, giggling shakily.

            “Well… I’m off.”

            “Good luck.”

            Enjolras nods. “It was nice to meet you.”

            “And you.”

            I pick up my bags and start to trudge away, but before I take five steps Grantaire is calling to me. I turn to see him catching up, napkin from the table clutched in his hand. He extends it, and I see above the sketch a phone number followed by an overly loopy ‘R.’

            “So I can congratulate you. When you set things right.”

            “Oh, you _are_ brazen.”

            He presses the napkin into my hand and steps back. “Go get ‘im.”

            I blow him a kiss and he wink, and then I’m resuming my trek away from their unbrokenness and into my tentative healing.

            Snatches of their conversation follow me, and I bite my lip at their banter.

            “Did you just give her a picture of me?”

            “My phone number, too. What’s the matter, babe? I thought you were all about adding another member to the party.”

            “You’re unbelievable. Really, though, what were you two…”

            They escape my range of hearing and I sigh, fighting back a sudden push of loneliness. My fingers tighten spasmodically and I realize I’m still holding Grantaire’s napkin. I pull out my phone to save his number and hesitate after opening my contacts list, scrolling down to Evan’s name after a moment of deliberation.

                        **Annalise** 11: 13 PM

                        Hey… sorry about earlier.   
                        When I get there, we should talk.

            I bite the inside of my cheek, humming indecisively. After a too-long snippet of anxiety, I growl audibly and add,

                        I love you.

            And send it.

            Evan doesn’t reply straightaway. I input Grantaire’s number into my phone and step into the security line before it vibrates in my hand. Heart thudding in somewhat pathetic apprehension, I bring the screen to eye level.

                        **Evan** 11:19 PM

                        You’re right. I’ll be waiting.

                        Love you too, ‘Lise.

            My knees threaten to buckle under my weighty relief.

            It’s not a solution. It’s not a miracle or even a guarantee.

            But it’s a start.

            My plane’s been delayed.

            It’s Christmas Eve, and it’s only a three hour flight to my home and when I get there dinner might still have leftovers and the roadsides will be white with snow and this is not how I expected my night to unfold.

            But I’m almost certain it’s how it was meant to. 

**Author's Note:**

> definition found here: http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/23536922667/sonder


End file.
